


Never Have to Go to War No More

by twiceshy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode s10e21 Dark Dynasty Coda, Gen, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4336253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twiceshy/pseuds/twiceshy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you say goodbye when the reaper insists there's no more time.  aka, Dark Dynasty from Charlie's POV.  Title is from the lovely and sad Patty Griffin song played for the character in the following episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Have to Go to War No More

“Stupid.”

“How could I have been so stupid?”

Charlie stood, frozen, at the bathroom doorjamb and watched the two blond men move quietly and efficiently around her room. They weren’t going to find what they wanted, at least she had made sure of that. No book, no codex, and no notes. The key had flown away and the evidence of its existence lay shattered on the bathroom floor behind her. They’d shown no interest in the bathroom or its occupant since they’d emerged from it, bloody and businesslike, ten minutes before. She couldn’t bring herself to look back, through the door. Her tablet was the least of the shattered remains in that tiny room.

Charlie wanted to scream at these two ass-hats, but knew they wouldn’t even catch a whisper. She wanted to stomp the floor—or even better, drive them to the floor at the tip of her sword and then stomp their too-pretty smiles into the back of their skulls. “It would serve them right,” her dark half murmured in agreement. 

But her sword was tucked away in the trunk of her little boosted car, and in her current state she doubted her best thrust would raise so much as a breeze to ruffle their rigid hair. Not that the sword would have done her much good in the tight corner of that hideous purple bathroom. Oh, she’d bloodied the one-armed freak, but he’d still driven straight in at her while the other blocked the door. No room, no momentum, glass under her feet, and he’d pushed her quickly to the edge of the tub.

She’d failed. Failed her IQ check, failed her initiative roll, failed to gain any sort of the advantage. And while the replay of each blow and counter strike stretched out behind her with clarity and precision, she’d never have the chance to play it over again in real time.

A glimmer of white danced at the corner of her vision. She ignored it, pointedly. 

The Teutonic good old boys weren’t worried about fingerprints, and hadn’t glanced towards the doorway where Charlie stood vigil, but at least they hadn’t found anything else to take with them. The leader, One-Armed Freak, caught her attention as he abruptly ceased his search and made for the door. 

“What about the body?” His sidekick asked. 

Not pausing in his stride, One-Arm said, “That’s not a body.” His face contorted into something that might once have been a grin. “That’s a message.” And they were gone. The hotel door gaped open behind them.

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The glint in the corner became a glimmer, and began to emit a steadier light, until Charlie could no longer convince herself to ignore it. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Not right now, not yet, they’re going to be here and I have to be ready for them, Not YOU, not yet—“

“Celeste.”

The name shocked like cold water, forcing her to look up with a gasp. In spite of herself, she stared, open-mouth and gaping eyes, at the encroaching creature who now stood before her. “Are you for real?”

It was a woman, more than a head taller than Charlie, dressed in slivery scale mail shot through with orange-gold tints. Over the armor hung what might be a cape embroidered with black feathers interwoven with runes and sigils along their spines. The woman’s face was impassive, beautiful and stern, and Charlie could see, partially hidden by blond hair and beginning somewhere above the woman’s ears, the metal tips of silver wings. 

“I assure you, I am very real, Celeste.” 

“Sorry-yeah-but---but don’t you think that-“ she gestured with both hands at the woman’s form, top to bottom and back up, “is a bit too much? I appreciate the Boris Vallejo of it all, but--.” She took a breath, tried again. “But I know what you are. You don’t need to impress me with the heavy metal cover outfit.”  
The other glanced down, surveying her cloak and mail. “This visage and garb I have not assumed in an eon or more. I believed you, of all my charges, might appreciate the gesture.” A corner of the woman’s mouth tipped upwards.

“I’m flattered—really—I just wasn’t expecting my reaper to be so—dramatic. Don’t you guys go for the suit and tie look, usually? Because I have to say, the chain mail babe thing—“

“I was called Valkyrie.”

“Valkyrie. Right. Of course.” Charlie sighed, “Because I get the only reaper in the fleet with a twisted sense of humor. Please could you just—tone it down… a bit?”  
“Celeste. We truly do not have time for this prattle.”

“No offense, but I think I have all the time in the world. Truly.”

The woman’s cloak shifted, a flash of light ruffling the embroidered feathers, and for a second Charlie thought the garment itself might rise around the reaper and envelop them both. 

A shot of panic went through her. Can’t leave yet, she thought. They’re coming. She flickered away from the reaper, finding herself at the edge of the broken hotel room door. Gods, how she wanted to travel through it, away from that bathroom, away from the ridiculous figure in front of her, away—

“Very well, if you must continue to play games.”

“It’s what I do.”

The Valkyrie vanished, and Charlie lost herself in the air. 

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“Is this better?” 

Charlie felt the tether of the reaper’s voice pulling her back into the room. She hadn’t even made it to the trunk of her car. She was now standing dead center of the door, looking out at the rainy night. No headlights. 

She glanced over her shoulder, then turned to face her reaper. Gone now was the cloak and mail, the blonde hair and wings. The woman seemed smaller, more slender, a knife of black clothing and pale skin. Her hair was now spikey and straight, piled high on her head and framing her now mischievous eyes in a cascade of bangs. Charlie’s eyes were drawn to a silver ankh that dangled on a chain just above the woman’s breasts. 

“Much better. Can I ask you why you’re raiding my pop culture archives, though? I mean, you’re very cute—now—and I’d love to chat--”

“Celeste-“

“But there’s one thing I know for sure about being a-a-“

“Spirit.”

Charlie’s speech failed her for a moment, but she gathered herself and said, “Spirit.” A shard of anger rose inside her form. “And it’s that you can’t make me go. Not if I’m not ready.”

The figure in black moved forward. “This is true. But Celeste, you must know-“

“Please don’t call me that.”

“You must know… it is time. It is a good passing. You have fought with honor.” Another step closer—why couldn’t Charlie leave this damned room? “Those who are coming will acquit you well, and they will treat what you leave behind with care and love.” Another step. “Now come. The way is longer than it once was, and the hour is late. You must be ready.”

Headlights coursed across the doorway, and Charlie flickered away again. 

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She came back to herself in the corner of the room, and the reaper was no longer in sight, but the boys were here. Her boys were moving across the spot she’d been a few moments before, guns at the ready, following the freak’s bloody trail in reverse. Dean was in the lead. He would see what was left before his brother. Charlie wanted to block his way. 

As if answering that thought, the reaper appeared again at her elbow. “Listen to me, Celeste.”  
She jerked away, felt like she had hit the wall with her back. “Stop that! That hasn’t been my name for a long time—you ought to know, digging around in my brain—“ 

“Alright. Charlie.” 

She stilled, even as Dean echoed the name from the bathroom. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sam pull back, hand at his mouth, and the shard in her chest widened.  
The reaper, still in her goth-cutie guise, did not move closer this time, but she leaned her head forward, chin up, as she spoke. Her voice was low, intent, slapping at Charlie’s attention. “You still think they can fix this, fix you. Understand me now, Charlie. Even if they take your bones to Castiel—and they will want to--and even if he heals your body’s wounds and fetches back your soul, which he will do if they ask—you will be haunted by this moment. This must not happen.”

The woman straightened, spreading her arms in a placating gesture, showing Charlie her pale palms. “My brethren began it, interfering from outside the human sphere. The demons willfully perverted mortals for their own ends while the angels stood by, and now these men, these Winchesters, make a game of mortality. There has been too much meddling, my charge, and each interference joins with the rest and comes crashing back over the world in waves of destruction. Your resurrection might only be a tiny stone dropped in the water—“ her face softened. “But even this breaks the surface, begins a ripple. Would you have your life added to the waves? Will you risk the storm?”  
Charlie put up her hand to stop the speech. “I get it. OK. ‘Come with me or help drown the world.’” A slight smile tugged at her lips. “Please, could I just have a few minutes? Say goodbye?” 

The reaper bowed her head, stepped back, and disappeared from view. 

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Sam. He sat at her hotel table, doubled-over on himself. She could see a sheen of sweat on his brow and he was taking shallow breaths. His hair lay across his cheek and his eyes focused on the floor six inches from his feet. Her flint-shard anger, at herself, at him, did not heat and melt away, but she felt the wound close over it, looking at him like this. She approached until she was standing at his side. 

What could she say, now, even if he could hear her voice? “It’s not your fault—it’s OK?” It wasn’t OK, not even a little. It wasn’t a good death, no matter what the reaper said, and it wasn’t just, but maybe that didn’t matter. It wasn’t right but maybe it could be alright - for him - in time. With all her strength of will, she flowed into her touch, trying to brush back a strand of his hair. To her surprise, it moved. Sam’s breath caught, and he leaned, just a bit, in her direction. Warmth grew in her, and she thought at him, as hard as she could. 

“It’s alright. It’ll be alright. You got this, Sam.”

He bowed his head.

 

Dean. He stood motionless in the doorway of the bathroom, facing what she could not. His face was dead calm, but she could see, flashing like ripples across his eyes and brow, raw grief, pain that emerged and then was quelled. She watched him, pistol held so tightly that his knuckles ached white, his other hand raised to the Mark, gripping it tighter still. It seemed to Charlie as she focused on that small gesture, that she could now feel the Mark’s presence herself. It pulsed against his fingertips, a source of icy rage, a call to action, a promise of oblivion in violence. He wasn’t fighting the call now. 

No. He was gathering himself up, preparing to answer it. Charlie could see, as though she were watching a physical act, Dean pulling pieces of himself away from the surface of his countenance, coiling these bits inward and entwining them with his love for her, with his love for Sam, so that they became a bright hard knot that he thrust downward into some unreachable place as the ice of the Mark rose over him. As the brightness faded, his hands began to relax, his body calming to a hard shell of simple resolve.

No soothing touch would reach that little kernel now. In the hotel room behind them the reaper reappeared, raising one hand to her in silent invitation. 

Before Charlie took that hand, before that bright knot of Dean’s soul disappeared from view in this frozen visage, there was one thing she could do. She pulled herself to his ear—and it was now an easy thing, knowing he would hear even if he could no longer understand—and she whispered,

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I began this shortly after the episode aired, but only finished it last night. Please forgive the silliness of some parts, and the pilfering from Neil Gaiman's Sandman series. I hope you liked it!


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